


In This Land of Strangers

by Mangomoth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Plus he couldn't see what he was stabbing, Semi Human AU, Slick's drunk and also trying to impress a girl, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangomoth/pseuds/Mangomoth
Summary: Spades Slick stabs Diamonds Droog and reluctantly prevents him from bleeding out. What else are friends for?





	In This Land of Strangers

Snow’s no way to celebrate a catch. It’s no way at all.

  
You pull your girl in by her waist and shut the door. Thick, fresh heat falls onto the exposed parts of your face. You’re kinda dizzy and kinda hot, deep in your bones like after a long sleep, but it’s all tipped to and fro by the rock in your head. That’s how you feel.

  
It’s great.

  
“C’mere, darlin’,” you say. You smooch in the doorway, and all the way past the kitchen onto the couch. She does this weird little thing with her hand that you’ve never had done to you before, and you kinda like it if you’re honest with yourself, and it’d be stupid to raise a fuss over a nice thing like that.

  
“Yeah, darlin’,” you tell her. She’s got the nicest smile you’ve seen in a while, Jesus Christ. You kiss her nose, because that seems like the thing to do, and she laughs. Man, what a catch. She smells nice.

  
Her mouth is just barely open, and her eyes are all on you. They travel over your body, then to your shoulder, and a point just behind it when...

  
“Fuckin’ oath, man!” someone who should not be on this couch yells.

  
Your girl screams. You scream. You get your knife out and try to stab the bastard. The guy screams.

  
“Hush, darlin’, the bastard’s been taught,” you announce proudly. You pull the knife out from him and pat his shaking back. “This here’s my old pal Droog. He’s a man of honour, darlin’, he won’t say a word. Won’t you, Droog?”

The man sits dressed down to a shirt after a long day, kneeling over the stab wound with a tense expression on his face. He looks surprised, or as surprised as you ever seen him get. You pull his ear a little, feeling high off the authority, despite a voice in your head that’s telling you you’re acting awful. Droog’s gonna get you back, you have no doubt, cos he always does. Feisty fella. He bites at your fingers where he can reach.

  
“Get me a goddamn towel, you maniac,” he growls at you.

  
“Get yourself a towel. You earned it, I reckon,” you say.

  
“A man oughta be able to relax on his own goddamn couch without getting knifed by his own goddamn crew,” he says back.

  
“Get your own towel,” you insist. You hate it when he makes sense.

  
“Fuck you,” he says.

  
“Fuck you, too,” you say.

  
You look around for a towel. There’s one left in the kitchen that looks more like a rag than a towel, and it’s already got a couple stains in it, but from the way Droog’s bleeding you think he’d better not complain about it.

  
You toss him the towel.

  
“A clean one, I said,” he says. Whining baby always worried about keeping his suits all wrinkle-free and clean. Don’t wear a good suit to a bloodbath is what you keep tellin’ him. No fashion in it, he always says. You think he’s a right peacock.

  
You toss him another towel. He takes it.

  
“Sorry about that mess, darlin’,” you say, turning back around to where your girl’s waiting for you. ‘Cept she’s not there.

  
“Darlin’?” you say loudly. “Come on out! S’safe now.”

  
“She’s not here, Slick,” Droog says, his voice a little muffled.

  
She’s not under the couch pillow, that’s for sure. “Then where’d she go?” you say. Girls don’t just up and disappear.

  
“You scared her off,” Droog says.

  
“I scared her off? It was all you!” you yell.

  
“Was mindin’ my own business,” he says.

  
“Lurkin’ in the shadows like a pervert, you mean!” you retort.

  
He looks at you with a particular expression. You don’t like it.

  
“Okay, Slick,” he says finally.

  
“Told you so,” you say, lamely. Droog makes winning suck sometimes. Bastard thinks he’s always right is what’s his problem. Slippery fella. ‘Cept that’s you. But in a good way.

  
You collapse into the couch. Droog bobs a little. He’s resorted to the ugly rag. The other one’s about used up. You find it hard to care. Bastard got what was comin’ to him. Chased off your girl, spyin’ on you, complains all the time. Yap yap yap. Particular bastard.

  
“Still goin’, huh?” you venture.

  
“Yeah, Slick, it’s still goin’,” he says.

  
“Got you good,” you remind him.

  
He doesn’t say anything to that. You get the impression he’s pissed. You’d tell him to watch his attitude, but he already got what was comin’ to him. Any more’n this is excess. You don’t feel like stabbing anything anymore anyway. Wow, this place is warm. All you want to do is sleep. You might be drunker than you expected.

  
“Night, Droog,” you announce. You don’t wait for an answer.

 

 

You wake up to shallow breathing. It’s Droog. You’d know it anywhere.

  
The room's freezing. He looks dead. He’s not, though, otherwise he wouldn’t be breathing like he is. His eyes are barely open.

  
“Droog,” you say, leaning over him. His body rocks up and down with the couch as you put your weight on it. The second rag’s all filled up now. You pry his bloody hand away from the wound, and it doesn’t resist at all.

  
The wound’s clean. Not especially deep. Lotta blood.

  
“Hey, Droog, what’s with all this? Overreactin’ a little, don’t you think?” you say, pressing your jacket over it. He flinches. “You’ve been through worse, you bastard. S’just a little scratch.”

  
He mumbles something incoherent into the pillow.

  
“Yeah, I know. Keep your hand here.” You take his cold hand and press it over your jacket. You don’t let go until his arm starts to work a little on its own. You give him a pat.

  
“There it is, just like that,” you praise. Baby’s completely overreacting, as you said, but it helps to pretend like he’s doin’ a good job. Play along, all that.

  
You pull your arm around his legs and pull him down the couch. He’s a tall, thin kinda guy, and he’s dead weight at the moment. Doesn’t make your job any easier, does it. Man’s normally capable of taking care of himself. He’s taken care of your ass more times than you can count when your head was hit the wrong way.

  
You grab the pillow from under his head and shove it under his thighs. He groans something out like some kinda burn victim, which you don’t bother listening to because he’s probably just complaining again. All the guy ever does.

  
At some point since you got home the door had swung open. Your apartment had been exposed to all manner of hobos and narcos. All the heat that had previously kept the place nice and cozy is gone, and replaced by a fresh, biting cold.

  
You walk around the apartment trying to find a blanket. You pick up a glass of water and some towels along the way. Nothing’s missing. You replace your soiled jacket with a clean towel. Bleeding’s slowing down, you reckon. Kinda hard to tell, given you just woke up... when?

  
You glance at the clock.

  
Been about an hour. Yeesh. You’re still pretty tired.

  
You consider getting another couple hours of shut-eye before you have to deal with this asshole again. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he owns the place, even though the bill’s split pretty heavily in your direction. You could take the bedroom. Screw the bastard, his fault he got himself stabbed on your knife. Why’d you stab him again? You can’t remember.

  
When you try to think back to what got you here all you get is a thick sludge. It feels gross to try, so you don’t. He probably deserved it and you leave it at that.

  
You hear Droog make some kinda rasping sound. You curl your arm around his shoulders and prop him up a little, pressing the cool glass to his lips. You tip it, maybe a little too careless cos half of it gets over his shirt, but hey, he’s had some fluid. That’s how stabs work, right? He’s gonna be fine now.

  
He starts mumbling again. You shake him out of it and snap your fingers in front of his face. He seems to focus on them for a bit, and then his head lolls onto your shoulder. He’s too cold.

  
“I’m gonna get you some more water,” you announce.

  
It helps a little. Maybe. You raid the cabinet and force some stale crackers down his throat. That makes him perk up a little bit.

  
You feel pretty good about yourself. You’re such a good nurse. Wait, no.

  
You get him another glass of water.

  
“Say, Droog, why’s the door open?” you ask. Now that his eyes are able to follow you around the room, you feel more confident that whatever he answers won’t be a jumbled, doughy mess.

  
He looks up at you through slanted eyes. “You.”

  
“Nah, wasn’t me. I don’t leave doors swingin’ open when it’s snowin’.” You slosh the glass a little.

  
“Y’were drunk. Brought a girl,” he elaborates, slurred. His breathing’s not awful anymore, you think.

  
“A girl?” you get up quickly and look for the tiddies. “No girl here, Droog. Pullin’ my leg here. Where’s the girl?”

  
He’s quiet.

  
“She ran. Scared off,” he says, after a moment. He closes his eyes again. “Too damn hot.”

  
“Nuh-uh. Cold,” you correct him. “Got you a blanket.”

  
You can’t see how the newest rag’s going anymore but Droog seems more comfortable with the blanket on, plus he’s looking better and better every minute. Feeling inspired, you try to find other gross shit in the kitchen to feed him. Moldy bread, unopened honey, cans and cans of beans. You get a little creative and make honeyed beans. You refuse to try it.

  
You put it on a spoon and try to pass it off casually. Droog knows you better than that.

  
“What’s this,” he asks. His eyes are narrowed a little like he’s thinking really hard, though you guess it’s just a shitty headache.

  
“Food,” you say.

  
When he opens his mouth again to demand an answer you stuff it in, twist it, and slip it back out. He swallows. His face is priceless.

  
“Hate you, Slick,” he says, grimacing. You believe him. You don’t really care.

  
“Had it coming,” you say lightly. “Coulda had a girl to us tonight. You scared her off.”

  
The look he gives you makes something deep inside you laugh, and the sound comes out all awkward and freakish, but you can’t stop. You pull his chest into your arms and keep him there while he’s still too weak to protest, though he manages to get a mean elbow into your jaw.

  
You turn his face roughly away with your hand. His cheeks feel warm to the touch, now. He looks better than before.

With a sense that the world is back on course rising in your heart, you feel your eyes begin to droop. Your ears seem to close over and your head, that heavy, heavy thing balancing on your shoulders finally comes down.

  
“Night, Droog,” you mumble into his hair.

  
“Fuck you, Slick,” he says, and you got a thing against ingratitude in any sorry ass you save, but to hear the cheek on his shaky voice tonight to you is sweeter than honey beans.


End file.
